Partners in Crime
by Avium
Summary: [BradSchuNagi, BradKen] "Drat, has anybody got a Kleenex?"


**Partners in Crime**

Disclaimers: After reading my own fanfics, I decided that I don't want to own them. The injustice done to my boys is just unbearable.

Author: Avium

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Crawford x Schuldich, Crawford x Ken, Crawford x Schuldich x Nagi

Fic length: One-shot

Timeline: None (because this is definitely NOT to be taken seriously)

Author's note: I had the urge to do Crawford x Schuldich ever since I started RPing them, but somehow I've managed to turn them into the Dynamic Comic Duo or something. Fear me!

-@-@-@-@-

It is another one of those bright sunny spring days. Okay, who am I kidding? It's always either bright and sunny or pouring like Noah's Ark in this fandom. People, just accept that I am not very creative and go with the flow, okay?

Thank you. Now, as I was saying – it is another one of those bright sunny spring days. The only trouble with sunny days is that Schuldich hated them. No, not the days – just the sun. I will hate the sun too if I had spent the night out clubbing, getting my ass humped by strangers and coming home drunk like an evil koala. But it's pretty much given in this fandom that Schuldich goes out pimping his body every night, so don't act so shocked, okay? And with the added bonus of coming home to see O' Grand Leader of Schwarz with a whip…

Okay, scratch that part. That is just –too- kinky. As far as Schuldich is concerned, Crawford is asexual. He had an easier time convincing the kitchen table to "lay down and take it, bitch!" than with Crawford. It probably has something to do with the fact that he was brandishing a dirty old table rag during both times. Plus, you usually won't try screaming that at a gun tottering American, especially when he's taking the shiny harbinger of DOOM out to change the cartridge. Silly Schuldich.

Back to the sunny spring day part – sorry, I got distracted. Said American is reading the papers as usual, because hey – that's what he's always doing in this fandom. No one seems to accept the fact that Crawford may actually drink coffee in the morning. As if the sudden jolt of caffeine will kill the man – DUH! So for the sake of originality he is drinking coffee as well today. I'm the all-powerful author and I am clever too – fear me!

Schuldich is hollering and grunting and making strange noises (down, fangirls, down), much to the annoyance of the clairvoyant outside. But here's something to think about: if you have a hangover and you feel like maiming anyone who dares so much as breathe because your head hurts like shit, why in HELL will you be screaming so much yourself? Definitely food for thought. 

Much to the delight of fangirls, Crawford decides to investigate. Let's face it people – you just so know that at this time Nagi will be in school and Farfarello will be in his cell, leaving Crawford and Schuldich alone to their 'devices'. Then hey – the two of them can get down to some hot, kinky gay p0rn or something! But who will believe me? This is PG-13, people – so stop fogging up the screen already.

Schuldich doesn't lock his door so Crawford can go into his room anytime he pleases, which is like right now – how very convenient! May I also point out to you that this is fandom cliché #4583, because everyone wants to make it easy for Brad-stick-up-the-ass-Crawford to get laid? I'm still trying to figure out how he can get laid with that pole up his ass, so if anyone can figure that out kindly drop me a note, will you? On the other hand, this may explain why you hardly ever see Crawford taking the shaft from someone else – there's no damn place for another person with that pole also firmly lodged there. But we're delving into dangerous territory for a PG-13 fanfic, so let's do a U-turn.

"Schuldich," he begins (how else can be begin? "George Michael"?), rubbing at his temple – "What is it now?" You know, seeing how often Crawford rubs at his forehead in annoyance, you will probably wonder why the man hasn't worn down the skin there already. This is fandom, dear readers – just accept the fact that these are the lovely people out there that never sleep, never eat, never go to the washroom and always seem to have a full wardrobe of the same attire day-in-day-out, okay? Besides, I know some of you readers out there will rather have the man wear down some more 'interesting' skin, but I'm getting steered around by the rating for this fanfic again. Lights, cameras, and U-TURN!

Schuldich replies (because it's the only polite thing to do; if you can put 'Schuldich' and 'polite' in the same sentence without choking on your tea that is) in his usual, sexy, nasal tone in spite of his hangover, "Fucking hangover from the goddamned shitty run-in last night with the mother-fucking…" Hold it there, baby – fanfic rating, fanfic rating… The German pauses, picks up his script and scratches out a few lines with the attached ballpoint pen before clearing his throat to speak, "Right, sorry – fanfic rating. You should have edited out that speech if you didn't want to stop me halfway for this. Now what am I supposed to do? Jump past the angsty speech and get down and dirty with the man?"

We all know this is coming, because this is fandom magic. Actually, I think fandom magic in this fandom means lots of hot, sweaty sex, but that's probably just me. I mean, I write Crawford x Ken p0rn all the time, and as much as I want to promote my other fanfics, we are talking about something else here… (this is the part where I get hit by Crawford's tie – did I say something wrong again?) Okay, people – it seems like we have some smut going on here. Does anyone have a tissue? Or maybe a box of it? Because I sure as hell read somewhere that there is only one FUCKING tablespoon's worth of that stuff, but some people confuse garden hoses with… never mind.

In the middle of the too-hot-to-be-printed-under-this-rating pleasant exchange, what else should happen but Nagi standing at Schuldich's door to ask the German for something. I swear you saw it coming, but like I said – I'm not creative, so please bear with me. And besides, I enjoy some Crawford x Schuldich x Nagi action, but you didn't hear it from me, okay? I'm a closet pervert, so deal with it. 

Blue eyes widen with surprise (boy, they sure can't be widening anymore than that, can they?) before the boy clears his throat. Is everyone having a sore throat in this place, or is it just me? So anyhow, Nagi concludes that he's decidedly traumatised by what he had just seen, but we all know what's coming up. Hey, I did say I secretly enjoy Crawford x Schuldich x Nagi action, right? So Nagi goes into Slut!Nagi mode and saunters up to them… I apologise for not writing out explicit smut for all you fangirls out there, but I have been told that my smut writing skills leave a lot to be desired. In fact, someone once commented that she couldn't tell if the tree was being molested by the poodle, or if it was some crazy metaphor for Farfarello x Omi p0rn. Oh man – tissue, anyone?

Now think about the situation at hand – we have three –very- hot guys doing even hotter things and I've not even shown a bloody shard of a plot anywhere. This is the part where the fanfic is supposed to end, but I intend to milk it for all its worth. Pardon the pun – but I know you read it the wrong way. Don't try to deny that you didn't. I just love innuendos.

I won't go as far as to bring Farfarello into this scene, because it's going to end up all bloody and BDSM-que. So the Kleenex gets passed around, everyone makes a dramatic, angsty speech about sleeping with the wrong parties and goes off on their way. People, I'm not in this for the angst – I'm trying to get the scene done and over with. Just humour me for a while, okay? 

After the long, boring series of dramatic self-loathing speech completes, Crawford attires himself and leaves the apartment. Now here's another issue that's been bugging me – why the hell do we always find this awesome foursome sharing the same apartment? I personally think that they won't be able to survive one day with each other and will probably each get their own place. But it sure makes a casual, angsty, sweaty fuck easier, so you don't hear me (or the other fangirls) complaining, so let's just assume that they do share an apartment – fandom cliché #1674 appearth! Actually, I just don't want to waste too many brain cells over this. I've an academic education to worry about.

Back to Crawford – so he's walking down the streets, adjusting his Armani suit (what's with the brand anyway? Hugo Boss is so much more 'it') and doing absolutely nothing. Maybe he's having an angsty inner monologue, but the way this fic is running it makes no sense to insert it. Anyway you know the contents – pretty much runs along the lines of "I fucked my team mate and my adoptive son! I'm a goddamned bastard! Hang on… I –am- a bastard. Oh well. Is that a corndog stand over there?" I don't know why I wrote corndog up there – perhaps it has something to do with the phrase 'horndog'.  Anyhow, just ignore me and concentrate on Crawford. No, not when he's checking his crotch… Okay, ready? Then back to the fanfic we go!

So by this time, bored readers are absolutely itching to stab the demented writer here, but still want to see Crawford get some action. What is he – a sex fiend? Now that you mention it, there's been some talk about his… Ouch, I get the point. Fine – then Ken comes walking down the street, a football neatly tucked under his arm. Notice how I subtly use the word 'football' as an innuendo for hot gay p0rn. Now don't look at me funny – you should have seen that coming. 

"Schwarz!" Because that is like so –duh-. And they spend several long minutes just glaring at each other. The other nice Tokyo citizens just go about their own business, oblivious to the very tall American and very mean-looking Japanese glaring daggers of doom at each other. Has anybody got a… Oh, wait – I got ahead of myself. Sorry. 

Who am I kidding? They glare at each other, they get suckered into the passionate fire raging in each other's eyes and before you know it they are FUCKING. No, not in the middle of the streets in broad daylight in Tokyo – I'm a law-abiding citizen and so are my boys. Of course they went to some cheap motel and had rabid bunny sex. Then you can fantasise about the steamy panting, gasping, rubbing, stroking, pulling, biting… Yes, people, I'm being blunt – I mocketh the ratingth! Screw the rating already. I think this is really the time to ask the audience for some tissue. Whoa – we're a huge crowd at the moment, don't we? I'll take the tissue, thanks. No, I won't ask Crawford to autograph your underwear for you, miss.

Ken is now sitting at the edge of the bed, looking all violated and abused because Crawford is just –so- seme. Face it, kid – no one will ever top Crawford. I'll try to give Ken a chance at doing that next time, but that's about it. I like men who can dominate. Did I say that out loud? I so did not say that. Anyhow, it's time to cue in the angsty Ken monologue as Crawford leaves – "I slept with the enemy! I betrayed Weiß! I… say, is that a corndog stand over there?" Sorry, I don't know what's gotten into me over this whole corndog issue. Do they even have that stuff in Japan?

By this time it's around evening; we know just how much stamina Ken and Crawford have between them. I'd wax lyrical over the Pink Drummer Bunny image that comes to mind, but Duracell will sue me. Crawford walks into the apartment, just in time to catch Schuldich heading off outside again. I don't know about you, but I heard that hangovers take a full day to nurse away. How does the German do this night after night I've no idea. Actually, I've no idea what's the deal with clubbing either, so don't mind me. 

Now, you must remember that you and I and Crawford all know what he's spent the afternoon doing, but dear Schu doesn't know naturally. So be patient with him while he asks the American – "Where have you been?" Do you think Crawford will answer him or will he give Schuldich his typical glance of glacier coolness? Oh, for the sake of originality let's say that he –does- reply. Arresting the German with a look of contempt he replies curtly – "Sleeping with the enemy." Hey, I am trying to be original, so back off already!

Schuldich blinks (we all know how cute he looks when he does that), then slaps Crawford on the back before commenting about how the man has to work on his sense of humour. Seriously – whenever Crawford tries to be funny no one gets the point. No wonder the man gave up trying a long time ago. I don't think his metaphorical blabbering make much sense either, but I'm just trying to make him more three-dimensional. Anyway, you won't get any of his nonsensical, superior so-bow-to-me-already speech over here, because I've over-milked this fanfic already and I'm going to end it right here.

~ End

-@-@-@-@-

Author's notes: In not a single moment is this fanfic meant to be taken seriously, and I'm not attacking any authors in particular – just trying to have a field day with fandom clichés. I love my boys. Really, I do.


End file.
